


bore me to death

by itisjosh



Series: onlypain [43]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity-centric, Angst, Character Study, Crying, Gen, Ghosts, Goodbyes, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Letters, Memories, No Fluff, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Post-War, Scars, Self-Hatred, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28954773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh
Summary: Up until Schlatt died, he was certain that ghosts were just myths made up to help people move on from their loved ones dying. Though Schlatt wasn't a fucking loved one, Quackity thinks.Quackity doesn't know why. He doesn't understand why Schlatt continues to talk to him, to send him notes and letters and gifts.Maybe it's to repent.Maybe it's to get Quackity back under his thumb.He'd never say it out loud, but he thinks that it might be fucking working.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt
Series: onlypain [43]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027711
Comments: 13
Kudos: 137





	bore me to death

_Alex,_

_Forest's always nicer in the morning. Less likely that people will be out there to bother you. 'Cause let's be real, Alex, if you're going out to the forest, you're trying to run from something. Or, even better, someone. You might think that you're being clever, trying to run from your problems by hiding by the trees, but you're not. Everyone runs, no one ever stops. If anyone ever tells you that they're not running from something or someone, they're lying to you. And if you can see that they're lying to you, well, you're one step ahead of them. That's what you have to do, you have to be better than everyone else to win. You can't think that, though. Once you let that get to your head, you're fucked. More so than you already are. Be careful when you talk to people, Alex. Be careful of what you say. Because one slip up can cause your downfall._

_Trust me._

_I'd know._

_\- Schlatt._

Quackity tucks the letter back into his jacket pocket, walking along the beaten path that leads into the forest. The sun is still low, hiding behind the horizon, and the moon is still hanging in the sky, slowly sinking down with the weight of the sky dragging it back. Ever since Schlatt died, Quackity has been finding letters scattered around, all in places where only he would look. Quackity has tried his best to pretend like he doesn't notice them, but they always manage to show up in his clothes' pockets or on the side of his desk when he wakes up in the morning. The words aren't forged, all of them are scribbled and dotted the same way that Schlatt always used to write. It seems like even after death, Schlatt still manages to haunt him. Schlatt still manages to make him weak and feel like shit. 

He cranes his head, looking up at the pale blue sky. So much has happened after Schlatt's death. So much has happened. Technoblade put a pickaxe through his face, for one. Tubbo became President, he started to make laws. L'manberg got destroyed. Blown to shit. Turned into dust and rubble. _Ashes to ashes_ , Schlatt's voice had taunted him while he watched the nation burn to the ground under his feet. _Ashes to ashes_. Quackity had only heard that phrase once before, from Wilbur, when he joined Pogtopia's forces. Quackity thinks that he liked it better when Schlatt said it. It felt less condescending, it felt less shitty and fake. At least Schlatt was fucking honest, while Wilbur honeyed his words in hopes that no one would see him for the monster he was. 

Quackity sighs, breathing in the crisp air that tastes like memories and hurt. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, listening to the birds sing and flutter around him, their songs annoyingly loud, but beautiful to the point where he doesn't want to stop listening. Quackity opens his eyes again when he hears something drop in front of him, glaring at the pristine, white envelope in front of him. "You son of a fucking bitch," he whispers, biting down on his lip as he reaches down, gently plucking the envelope off of the ground. The back of it is slightly wet from where it landed, though otherwise it's perfect. No damage, no anything. Just a bright white envelope. "Fucking hell." Quackity mutters, tearing off the top of it. Inside is an even whiter piece of paper, with his name written out in block letters. 

_Hello, Alex. Lovely to talk to you again._

_What are you running from this time?_

_Is it still me? It's always me, isn't it? It always has been, ever since I showed up. To be fair, it started long before that. Who are you running from, Alex? Is it yourself? Because if it isn't me, well, there's only one last person it could be. It's always either me or you, Alex, and recently, I think it's been you. Maybe you've finally realised that you're more like me than you thought, and you're trying to get away from that. Being like me never goes well, and I recommend running from that as long as you possibly can. I can give you pointers on how not to become me, but I think it's too late for that._

_You tried to publicly execute a man in front of everyone of L'manberg. Does that sound familiar to you, Alex? Does that remind you of someone, someone who you assured me you would never become? It reminds me of myself._

_I think you know where I'm going with this._

_You don't really need to run from me anymore, Alex. I think that you should keep running from yourself until you learn how to stop turning into people you hate. Trust me, I hate me, too. Not for the reasons you think, but I can relate to hating me. I think most people can. You know, Alex, it's been a long time since we spoke face to face. Right now, I'm watching you from the bush to your left. When you look there, I'll be gone. Not like you can see me. Don't worry, I'm gone by now. I'm back in my office. You know, you really destroyed the fucking property value of everything in L'manberg, Alex. How am I supposed to sell my office now?_

_Jokes aside._

_If you keep running, you're going to break your own legs trying to escape._

_And when you do, Alex, I hope you know that I'll be there to help you stand. I'll pick you back up, I'll drag you across the forest in the early morning, even though you'll try to fight it. You know, I don't think people change. They just tend to realise that their way of things isn't working anymore, and they have to find a new way to hurt people. I don't really have any reason to hurt you anymore. I don't think you want me to say sorry, so I'm not going to. But I think that you know, if you wanted me to say it, I would._

_And this time, it wouldn't be a lie._

_I hope that you're doing better than last time. I know that you're not, but it's a nice thing to ask for, right?_

_Right._

_\- Schlatt_

Quackity breathes out, smoothing out the crumpled folds of the letter before he tucks it into his pocket, along with the other letters. He glances to the bush on his left, quietly chuckling at the smiley face made out of sticks that looks back up at him. He ducks his head for a moment before he continues to walk, shoving his hands in the pockets in his pants. Quackity never believed in ghosts. He's never had a reason to until recently. Up until Schlatt died, he was certain that ghosts were just myths made up to help people move on from their loved ones dying. Though Schlatt wasn't a fucking loved one, Quackity thinks. He knows that there's no point in yelling at him, at raising his voice or trying pinpoint where he's standing. Quackity knows damn well that he's not back in his office. Schlatt likes to follow him on his walks.

Quackity doesn't know why. He doesn't understand why Schlatt continues to talk to him, to send him notes and letters and gifts. 

Maybe it's to repent. 

Maybe it's to get Quackity back under his thumb.

He'd never say it out loud, but he thinks that it might be fucking working. And he hates that, Quackity hates that. He hates himself and he hates Schlatt, an he doesn't know which one of them he hates more. "I want you to say it," he raises his voice, looking up at the canopy over his head. The sun peeks through the leaves, shining in his eyes. "I want to hear you say it." Quackity flinches at the white envelope that flutters down to his feet from the sky, wondering how quickly Schlatt is able to write. He picks it up, his name, once again, written out in big block letters that are easier to read than Schlatt's normal handwriting. 

_Alex,_

_I'm sorry._

_\- Schlatt._

Quackity laughs, reaching down further into his pockets, his fingers brushing over metal. He pulls out the lighter, the gold-plated one with _"J . SCHLATT"_ inscribed into the side of it. Schlatt insisted that the golden lighters looked better than the grey or silver ones, but Quackity never really saw the different. Maybe it was aesthetic, maybe it was something only a smoker would know. Maybe it was just because Schlatt had obscure knowledge that no one else would ever think of having. Maybe Quackity was just stupid. He flips open the top, holding up the letter to the newly created flame. "You're not," he whispers, his voice cracking on the words. "You're not _fucking_ sorry," Quackity edges the paper towards the fire, watching as it burns and twists and curls, the flames devouring it within seconds. "Fuck you." 

He throws the letter to the ground, slamming his foot down on it, putting out what remains of the fire. He jams the flip lighter back in his pocket, running his fingers over the stupid engraving. He hates that that's what calms him down. Schlatt's stupid fucking lighter is what keeps him from yelling and screaming and punching anything near him. He digs his feet into the ground, squeezing his eyes shut. Quackity breathes in, then out, his chest heaving with every breath that he takes. He doesn't know why he asked Schlatt to say sorry. He doesn't know why he did that. Probably because he's stupid, Quackity thinks. Probably because he never fucking learns. That's probably it, that explains most of his fuck ups in his life. 

Challenging Technoblade was because he was stupid. He thought he stood a chance, Quackity really though that he stood a chance against that man, and he was so fucking wrong. He reaches up with his other hand, the one not touching the lighter, and touches his face. He drags his thumb over his mouth, feeling the raised skin. The scar runs down the right side of his mouth, going all the way up to his hairline, passing his eye. Quackity lost his vision in that eye after the fight. Apparently they didn't even try to fucking save his eye, they just let him lose it. He wonders if he deserved that, or if they were just being assholes. 

Both, probably. It's always a combination of both. 

Quackity shakes his head, gripping the lighter a little tighter. _"I got this for winning a talent show,"_ Schlatt had told him. _"Well, I didn't win. Some kid named Will did, but he gave the lighter to me, anyways. He said he didn't smoke. I didn't either, but I didn't want to say that. So I picked it up, and well..I think you can see where the rest goes, huh?"_ Quackity closes his eyes, resuming his pace, leaving the burnt piece of paper behind. Even if anyone came out here and found him, found him walking away from a charred piece of paper, no one would ask questions. No one tends to ask him anything anymore, thank fucking god. Quackity doesn't know why he took the lighter. 

He doesn't know a lot of things. He doesn't know why he stayed, he doesn't know why he decided to join Schlatt in the election. Quackity thinks that, maybe, it was for the power, but that doesn't make sense. He never was in it for the power back then. He thought that he was, he thought that he'd do anything for power, but that was just a lie. Something to make him feel less like shit for what happened to Wilbur and Tommy. If he could blame it on power, on a simple mistake, he didn't have to own up to his own actions, and that was a fucking lot easier than repenting. 

"Is that what you're doing?" Quackity asks, tapping his foot as he walks, wondering where the melody in his head came from. "Repenting? Are you trying to fucking win me back over, Schlatt? Is that what you're trying to do?" He asks, a little louder this time. "Are you?" Quackity stops walking, pausing in the middle of the forest. The birds have stopped singing, leaving him alone with a ghost who he shares too much history with. "Are you trying to _fucking_ repent, Schlatt? Is that why you give me letters? You weren't this invested in me when you were alive," he laughs, scuffing his foot against the ground. "It's not going to work." It is. It's already working. A few kind words from Schlatt, and Quackity is already ready to open his arms and come back. 

Of course, no one answers him. The birds start to sing again, chattering away at nothing. The wind blows around him, rustling in his ears, moving his clothes and his hair. Leaves fall to the ground around him, covering the forest floor with even more green, a few hints of yellow shining through. Quackity stands still for a few moments longer, swaying back and forth on his feet. A part of him wishes that another white envelope will fall at his feet, and he wishes that the words inside would be believable. Quackity opens his eyes, looking up at the sky, though he barely can see it through the canopy. Nothing lands at his feet. Nothing rustles or moves, nothing calls out to him. Schlatt stays silent for the first time in his life, and Quackity wishes that he'd start talking again. 

Quackity used to think so highly of him. Schlatt could do nothing wrong, he was impressive and strong, and Quackity was entranced by the way he controlled every single situation he was in. It made him want to stick with him, Schlatt had his ways of doing that. He felt like freedom, he felt like flying. But when Quackity got too close, he got his wings clipped and was forced to sit on the ground and watch Schlatt rise even more. Quackity flinches as an envelope flutters from the treetops, landing on his foot. He bends down, picking it up with ease. His name is written on it as it normally is, though this time it's all lowercase. 

_Alex,_

_You think too loudly._

_Are you thinking about me? Or are you thinking about the past? Which includes me, of course. I'm always at the forefront of your mind, right? I'm sorry. I feel like maybe I should say that more often now. Since it's actually true now. I don't remember much of what I did, I can admit that. I was a drunken asshole in a haze all the time, and I really don't remember a lot of what I did. Don't look at me like that, untense that jaw of yours. You'll get wrinkles, Alex. Grey hairs, too. Ease up your face, unclench your hands. You're ripping at the paper. Paper is expensive, it's stock price has gone up. Sorry. Bad joke._

_I didn't love you. I figured I should say it. Not the way that you loved me. I think, maybe, in another universe, it would have worked. But I don't really believe that, and neither do you. Did you even love me like you thought you did? I hope not. I know that it's hard to believe, but I think that I'm getting better. I'm trying to be less shit of a person. Funny, isn't it? The big bad monster is left alone, and that's what gets him to change. Of course that's how it goes. There were two ways it could go, and I think I chose the good one. I could have stayed the same._

_But let's be real with each other._

_I remember very little. I loved you, not the same way you loved me. I was proud of that kid, what was his name? It started with a "T", didn't it? He reminded me of Will. That kid I told you about, the one who I got my lighter from. I have bad news, Alex. That kid turned into a monster. To be fair, both of us did. I turned into a monster long before he did, at least. He stopped going by Will when he got here. Does the name Wilbur ring a bell to you, Alex? Yeah, that's him. The kid with the guitar and the nice voice who won the talent show and gave me his prize._

_Anyways._

_You think a lot. Too much, probably. Stop thinking about me so much, Alex. Really. It's not good for you. And I know that you're looking at the letter right now, going, "how am I supposed to stop thinking about you when you keep talking to me?" Alex, I think it might be time that I stop writing to you. I know that you keep every single letter of mine, other than the last one, but I wonder if it's time for you, us, to move on. Do you think that would work, Alex? Do you think that would make it better? That it'd help you move on? That it'd help you forget me?_

_Forget isn'_ _t the right word, is it? It's hard to believe, but I do care about you. More than a tool, I guess. I'm not good at words, so you'll have to deal with bluntness. You're not useful to me anymore, Alex. I have no fucking reason to talk to you, because every letter I write, I feel like I'm dying. And every time I watch you open the envelope I give you, I die a little more, because I know that you're dying, too._

_It's stupid._

_We're stupid._

_We were always stupid._

_Alex, you really need to loosen up your face. Wrinkles, remember? Grey hairs, if you're not careful. I'm tired of you and I'm tired of me, and I'm very tired of acting like I'm the same person. I'm tired of you looking at my letters and not saying anything back. I get it, but I'm tired. What's the point in writing to someone who won't write back? Sorry. That's not fair. I'm not fair, I never was. I don't know how else to put it._

_I'm sorry._

_I should stop writing to you. You're the last person I have left, and I feel like shit because of it. You only stay because I told you to. You only stay because I used you so much that you don't know how to be a real person without me. It's how it works. It's how we work. I'd say that I'm trying to be the better person, but I'm not._

_Alex, do you ever think about moving away from this place? It corrupts people. More so than any other place I've been to. It takes good people and turns them bad. You were a good person. I wasn't good, but I wasn't evil. I think that it would be best for you to leave. To restart. I can't leave here, so you'll be free of me._

_Like I said, Alex. Keep running until you break your legs. Maybe that'll get you your freedom._

_From me._

_\- Schlatt._

Quackity holds the letter in his hands for longer than he usually does, staring at every word, rereading it over and over and over and over again. His eyes blur the words together, tears falling down his face, sliding down his cheeks and hitting the paper, blurring still-wet pen lines together, making the ink bleed. Quackity reaches up, wiping away his tears with his arm, blinking back the others as he looks to the sky, biting down on his lip to distract himself. 

"Who the fuck said I wanted to run?" He asks, knowing damn well that Schlatt is still there. "Who the fuck told you that? You always assume, you always, you always fucking- you always assume!" Quackity shouts, clenching the note in his hand even tighter, jamming his hand in his other pocket to grab at the flip lighter, his chest heaving with every heavy breath he takes. "All the time, it's all you do! You assume, and you hurt, and you- you don't hurt- you don't..you're not hurting! You only hurt other people! You're not fucking able to feel things, you're not sorry, you're not!" Quackity screams the words until his voice is gone and his throat is raw, tears pouring down his face faster than he can contain them. He grips the lighter in his hand, running his fingers along the engraving, swallowing back all the words and lies he wants to say. 

Quackity doesn't set the letter on fire. He puts the note in his shirt pocket, along with the rest of them. They all are crumpled by now, worn and yellow from how often he pulls them out and reads them again, some of the ink stained and blended together from his previous breakdowns. 

But this one feels real. It feels like the last. 

Quackity doesn't want it to be the last. Why? What the fuck is _wrong_ with him? Why does he keep coming back, why does he keep running into Schlatt's arms, into his embrace, only to be stabbed in the ribs again? Why? Why? Why does he do this, why does he willingly hurt himself? 

Schlatt _ruined_ him. Schlatt took him and molded him until he was something new and better and worse and evil and bad and crooked, and..and _wrong_ , and _so fucking wrong_. Quackity falls forwards, his knees hitting the ground as he digs his hands into the earth, the lighter falling to the ground next to him. It's dull against everything else, and Quackity can't stop looking at it. He can't take his eyes off of the golden-plated lighter with the words _"J . SCHLATT"_ engraved into it. 

An envelope falls to the ground in front of him. It's not white. It's stained with yellow and blood and ink and it's crooked and torn. It's everything that Schlatt is, it's everything that Quackity is. It's them, it's their entire life written out onto one piece of fucking paper, it's _them_. It's how they are, it's their insides and their outs. It's them. The two of them, forever.

"You promised," Quackity whispers. "You told me you'd never leave. You fucking promised! You told me- you said you'd be here, you..you said..I have no one left!" He shouts, feeling like his throat is bleeding, tasting blood on the tip of his tongue. He feels like Technoblade's pickaxe is jamming its way into his face again, that it's taking more than just his vision from him. "You _swore_ , Schlatt! You fucking promised, you told me that you wouldn't do this to me! You _promised_ , you fucking asshole!" 

Quackity laughs, bitterly and hollowly, because what did he expect? What did he expect from him, from Schlatt? He doesn't want to read the letter. He turns it over with shaky hands, his body shivering and trembling as he reads his name.

The letters aren't blocky. His name is written in cursive. Schlatt told him that he hated cursive. 

Schlatt told him that he hated cursive, that he hated the way it looked. 

It was too fancy.

It was too formal.

It wasn't like him.

Schlatt hates cursive. Is this his way of telling Quackity that he hates him? Is that it? Is that why his name is in cursive, is that why he's fucking crying? Quackity looks down at the envelope, his fingers picking away at the corners, anxiety gnawing in his chest, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out. He feels the tears go down his face, staining the envelope even more. 

Quackity tears off the top of the envelope.

The paper is perfect.

White, without a single stain. 

Pristine.

_Goodbye, Alex._

_\- Schlatt._


End file.
